each to the other."
He stumbled over only a few words, Young-sup prompting him. Then Young-sup held out the scroll and prepared for his turn to recite.
Kee-sup didn't move to take the scroll. He was staring at the tabletop, his brow furrowed in ferocious concentration, the deepest of frowns on his face. Young-sup glanced down to see what held his interest; there was nothing there.
"Here," he said impatiently, and shook the scroll so it rattled a little. "What are you looking at?"
Kee-sup looked up suddenly and waved the words away as if they were bothersome gnats. "Hush. I was thinking about something..." He jumped to his feet. "We'll study later. There's something I have to do." And with Young-sup still holding the scroll in puzzled surprise, Kee-sup left the room.
***
Later that afternoon Young-sup wandered into the kitchen. He watched listlessly as his mother and the maidservant taught his little sisters how to make
man-doo,
meat-stuffed dumplings. After a quick glance at Young-sup's sullen face, they ignored him. His mother knew that if he wanted to speak, he would.
Not being allowed to fly the kite for the Kingâthat was the biggest disappointment. Young-sup considered for a moment the possibility of flying his own tiger kite in the competition. He discarded the idea just as quickly. If he should end up flying against Kee-sup, he knew in his heart that he could win. And he also knew that he wouldn't even try. Just as the King had said, a contest with a fixed result was not worth competing in.
But on top of that his great joy in earning the reel had been crushed. He hadn't really won it on his own, after all. The knowledge bit into him like the sting of a centipede, and he felt he would never again use the reel with pleasure.
He stared at the low tabletop, where the hands of the two women were nearly a blur as they flashed about filling and sealing the dumplings. His sisters made awkward, lumpy dumplings; perhaps if he hung around long enough, he could snitch a few of these
straight from the pot. It seemed the only thing in life to look forward to now.
It was there that Kee-sup found him, crouched glumly by the low iron stove as the simmering dumplings filled the tiny room with their aromatic steam.
"Come on," said Kee-sup. "Let's go to the hillside and fly."
Young-sup scowled. "You go. You're the one who needs the practice."
Kee-sup's voice was stubborn. "You come, too." He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. "We need to talk."
Young-sup sighed and rose to his feet. Kee-sup had left both tiger kites outside the kitchen doorhole, and each carried his own on the long walk up the hill.
As always flying had the power to cheer Young-sup. He never tired of the thrill that ran through him when he felt the tug of the wind on his line. And it surprised him to find that holding his reel again was a great comfort. It was still his reel, fine and shining, no matter who had paid for the seventh kite. The pain eased as he flew, like a swelling going down.
So he was ready to listen when his brother began to
speak. Kee-sup's words came slowly, with a night and a day of thought behind them.
"You think it's so easy for me, being the first-born," he began. "Well, you're wrong. I could tell you hundreds of times when I wished things were different."
Young-sup turned in surprise. He had imagined the talk would be about kite-fighting strategy, and no matter how deep his own disappointment he had concluded that not to help Kee-sup would serve no purpose. He had come to the hillside prepared to give his brother a flying lesson.
Kee-sup went on. "Do you think I always
want
to go to the ancestors' gravesite? Four times a year, the same thing over and over. It was fun at first. Now it's just something I have to do. There are lots of times I'd rather stay home.
"And what about our studies? You know I will take the court examinations in a few years. Study, study, studyâthat's all Father ever talks about.
He stumbled over only a few words, Young-sup prompting him. Then Young-sup held out the scroll and prepared for his turn to recite.
Kee-sup didn't move to take the scroll. He was staring at the tabletop, his brow furrowed in ferocious concentration, the deepest of frowns on his face. Young-sup glanced down to see what held his interest; there was nothing there.
"Here," he said impatiently, and shook the scroll so it rattled a little. "What are you looking at?"
Kee-sup looked up suddenly and waved the words away as if they were bothersome gnats. "Hush. I was thinking about something..." He jumped to his feet. "We'll study later. There's something I have to do." And with Young-sup still holding the scroll in puzzled surprise, Kee-sup left the room.
***
Later that afternoon Young-sup wandered into the kitchen. He watched listlessly as his mother and the maidservant taught his little sisters how to make
man-doo,
meat-stuffed dumplings. After a quick glance at Young-sup's sullen face, they ignored him. His mother knew that if he wanted to speak, he would.
Not being allowed to fly the kite for the Kingâthat was the biggest disappointment. Young-sup considered for a moment the possibility of flying his own tiger kite in the competition. He discarded the idea just as quickly. If he should end up flying against Kee-sup, he knew in his heart that he could win. And he also knew that he wouldn't even try. Just as the King had said, a contest with a fixed result was not worth competing in.
But on top of that his great joy in earning the reel had been crushed. He hadn't really won it on his own, after all. The knowledge bit into him like the sting of a centipede, and he felt he would never again use the reel with pleasure.
He stared at the low tabletop, where the hands of the two women were nearly a blur as they flashed about filling and sealing the dumplings. His sisters made awkward, lumpy dumplings; perhaps if he hung around long enough, he could snitch a few of these
straight from the pot. It seemed the only thing in life to look forward to now.
It was there that Kee-sup found him, crouched glumly by the low iron stove as the simmering dumplings filled the tiny room with their aromatic steam.
"Come on," said Kee-sup. "Let's go to the hillside and fly."
Young-sup scowled. "You go. You're the one who needs the practice."
Kee-sup's voice was stubborn. "You come, too." He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. "We need to talk."
Young-sup sighed and rose to his feet. Kee-sup had left both tiger kites outside the kitchen doorhole, and each carried his own on the long walk up the hill.
As always flying had the power to cheer Young-sup. He never tired of the thrill that ran through him when he felt the tug of the wind on his line. And it surprised him to find that holding his reel again was a great comfort. It was still his reel, fine and shining, no matter who had paid for the seventh kite. The pain eased as he flew, like a swelling going down.
So he was ready to listen when his brother began to
speak. Kee-sup's words came slowly, with a night and a day of thought behind them.
"You think it's so easy for me, being the first-born," he began. "Well, you're wrong. I could tell you hundreds of times when I wished things were different."
Young-sup turned in surprise. He had imagined the talk would be about kite-fighting strategy, and no matter how deep his own disappointment he had concluded that not to help Kee-sup would serve no purpose. He had come to the hillside prepared to give his brother a flying lesson.
Kee-sup went on. "Do you think I always
want
to go to the ancestors' gravesite? Four times a year, the same thing over and over. It was fun at first. Now it's just something I have to do. There are lots of times I'd rather stay home.
"And what about our studies? You know I will take the court examinations in a few years. Study, study, studyâthat's all Father ever talks about.
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